Confess

by Rob Halford

I was mooching around the airport late at night, waiting for our flight to LA, when I saw Lemmy sitting on his own. Normally, if Lemmy was on his own, he didn’t like to be bothered, but I went over and joined him. ‘Alright, Lem?’ ‘Alright, Rob.’ We had a bit of a chat but Lemmy seemed quiet and subdued by his usual lively standards. For some reason, I took his hand, and we sat like that in silence for a few minutes. Then, I said, ‘Hey, Lem, let’s do a selfie!’ He gave me the Lemmy Stare, and I braced myself to be told, ‘Fuck off, Rob!’ But instead, he smiled and said, ‘Oh, go on, then.’ I took a snap of us together. It was the last time I was to see him. Before the end of the year, Lemmy was dead. I spoke at his funeral in Hollywood. ‘Whenever I was in the presence of Lord Lemmy, I always felt a bit overwhelmed,’ I said. ‘Admiration, mainly. Here is a man that lived the rock ’n’ roll life on his own terms. A true rock ’n’roll maverick!’ And you can say that again.